Here's one guaranteed to tie you up in knots: the four-in-hand, the half-Windsor, full-Windsor, Shelby and Pratt.

We're talking about neckties. Kaye reminded me that I wrote about them once before, but it was time for a reprise. Once again, I hollered from my computer to wherever she was in the house. She came running to see what kind of new mess I was in.

"How many ties do I have in my closet?" I asked.

"Here we go again," she replied with her usual, long-suffering sigh. "Do I have to guess?"

"Just take a stab at it," I requested.

She grabbed a number out of the air. "A hundred twenty-five."

Not a bad guess. I had no clue without counting them. I walked into the bedroom, pushed my hangered trousers to one side and began the official count.

It was then that "four-in-hand" took on a whole new meaning. I had four in my hand and four on the floor. Many of my ties are silk. Silk is slippery. Need I say more?

Every time I grabbed one tie, another slipped off the rack and landed in a heap on the floor. It was a challenge, but I persisted.

"Ninety-five," I proclaimed proudly.

She shrugged her shoulders and walked away. "Sue me," she said.

"Are there any more?" I asked.

"In drawers upstairs," she replied. "Do you want me to go up and count them?"

NOT ABOUT NEED

Nah. Ninety-five neckties for a guy who doesn't even wear them anymore except for weddings and funerals and other formal occasions is more than enough.